


L’extase Langoureuse (Languid Ecstasy)

by delires



Series: Symbolism [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 23:33:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/delires/pseuds/delires
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porny sequel to 'We Must Be Forgiven Things'. Somebody wrote to me to very politely ask if I wouldn't mind archiving this here...so here it is!</p>
            </blockquote>





	L’extase Langoureuse (Languid Ecstasy)

“You only wanted to do this because you’re goddamned lazy,” Arthur says, narrowing his eyes at Eames. It is a familiar look. It is razor-edged. It is composed of equal parts exasperation, superiority and sadism.

Eames is wholly immune to it.

“Not at all. I wanted to do it because I predicted you would be so desperately hot like this, darling,” Eames says, nudging forwards so that Arthur is forced to wrinkle his nose and lean back out of reach. “Hot like the sun,” Eames grins.

Arthur slaps a hand flat against Eames’s chest, more as a gesture than to do any real good at holding Eames back.

“And you’re lazy,” Arthur retorts. “Like a sloth,” he adds and then scowls, dissatisfied by the calibre of his own simile. Only Arthur could disappoint himself so. Eames wants to kiss the frown line from between Arthur’s eyes.  

“Oh, now that isn’t fair,” Eames says, smiling. “Sloths aren’t lazy. They’re just slow. They can’t help that.”

Arthur arches an eyebrow, but the pressure of his restraining hand eases a little against Eames’s collarbone.

“No? So what’s your excuse? I suppose you can’t help it either.”

Eames runs a hand up Arthur’s thigh. He encounters nothing there but firm, smooth muscle. He says, “You’re my excuse. You might not have noticed, but you are incredibly distracting. How on earth can a man ever be expected to get any work done around you?”

There’s a little twitch of movement in Arthur’s jaw, as Arthur bites the inside of his cheek, in an attempt to hold onto the smile which he is already failing to keep from lighting up his eyes.

“Am I distracting?” Arthur says and although he is trying not to pull his words out into a bedroom drawl, he is not trying hard enough.

Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s wrist, which is still bracing a palm against his chest. Eames’s fingers fit all the way around it.

“Terribly distracting,” he leers, and Arthur’s face finally breaks into a smirk.

Arthur tips forwards, to drop his forehead snug against Eames’s, so close that his face blurs and softens before Eames’s eyes.

“Do you think you’ll be able keep your limited mental faculties engaged until we’re done here? It would make a nice change for you to retain concentration throughout an entire job,” Arthur breathes, and it is truly a marvel that he does not choke on the thickness of his own sarcasm.

Eames’s hold tightens. His fingers clench around Arthur’s wrist and against Arthur’s thigh. He’s already so hard that it hurts. He says, “Once you get started, love, I fully expect to have no mental faculties left to speak of.”

Arthur grins.

“You’re fucking right you won’t,” Arthur says, and pushes two fingers into Eames’s mouth.

A gentleman never gags, so Eames catches Arthur’s knuckles between his teeth before the fingertips can brush the back of his throat, causing Arthur to inhale sharply through his nose. Arthur shifts his hand from Eames’s chest and clamps it instead around Eames’s shoulder, holding everything steady as Eames swirls his tongue thickly over the fingers in his mouth.

Arthur’s feet are planted either side of the chair Eames is sitting in, which means that Eames has to look up to meet his eyes. Clothing already seems like a distant memory.

Eames presses his tongue up once more, firm between Arthur’s fingers, before he unclamps his teeth and draws his head away. The fingers slide from his mouth with a wet sucking sound.

“Did I ask you to bite?” Arthur says.

Eames smirks and says, “You didn’t specify,” although, whether Arthur hears him or not is anyone’s guess, because Arthur is already reaching back and pushing his wet fingers inside himself and gasping little fluttering butterfly breaths as he does so. His grip against Eames’s shoulder goes white-knuckled, weighted for support. Arthur’s eyelids flicker closed at the touch of his own hand and the breath hitches in Eames’s throat.

This is proving to be a superb idea all around.

Eames catches at Arthur’s waist, steadying him as he works himself open with his fingers. He turns his head to nuzzle the straining tendons at the inside of Arthur’s wrist. 

“Darling,” he murmurs and Arthur hums in response, in agreement, before tilting his head and bending forwards again. His lips fumble against Eames’s until they catch just right.

They kiss open-mouthed and slow. When Arthur pulls away, his lips are flushed red. He places his second hand on Eames’s shoulder. The fingers are warm and damp, curling hard into Eames’s muscle. Eames shudders at their touch, cock throbbing. Arthur’s slender limbs are deceptive. There is a deadly strength coiled around these delicate bones, and Eames is well aware that it would take more than just brute force for him to get himself out of this now. Arthur’s grip on him is strong as steel.

“The second you move from this chair, it’s game over,” Arthur warns.

“Understood,” Eames quickly agrees.

There is rain lashing against the window. Outside is a mess. The hotel bar is dingy and run-down. There’s nowhere that Eames would rather be than sitting here, on an uncomfortable hotel chair, with Arthur standing astride his knees, Arthur, who is open and ready and has just pulled spit-slick fingers out of his ass.

Eames runs his palms over Arthur’s hipbones and grins lasciviously. “I’m not going anywhere, love,” he affirms.

Arthur steps into the touch, forcing an awkward bend into Eames’s arms. He moves forwards until the smooth plane of his navel is so close that Eames would only need to duck his head a little to lick across it and taste the scattered trail of dark hair with his tongue. He does so, sliding his hands around Arthur’s body, to rest more comfortably at the small of his back, and Arthur combs his fingers through Eames’s hair. It might be an affectionate gesture, but Arthur spoils all that by saying, “I could break your neck from up here,” as he slides his thumbs across the joint of Eames’s shoulders, pressing them against the base of Eames’s neck.

Eames looks up. He pushes back his shoulders deliberately, flexing his muscles beneath Arthur’s hold, because although brute force will not win everything, it is certainly a useful bargaining tool.

“I would prefer it if you didn’t,” Eames says, with a subtext of ‘I dare you to try’. He adds, “I’d prefer it if you just got on with what you were supposed to be doing up there.”

Arthur licks his lips. One side of his mouth curves into a devilish smirk.

“Whatever you want,” he says, but in French; “ _Comme tu veux_.” The language is unexpected, the words running together like liquid and reminding Eames so sharply of Paris, of the first time that he ever laid his hands on Arthur. Arousal coils in Eames’s stomach. Arthur reaches one guiding hand to Eames’s cock, lining it up.

And then, Arthur _sinks_.

The tight grasp of internal muscle floods heat through Eames’s veins. His mouth goes slack as Arthur lowers himself slowly, bit by bit, until Arthur’s weight is settled across Eames’s lap and they are both gasping in short aborted breaths. Their chests are pressed flush against one another, their hearts thudding. The back of the chair creaks beneath their combined mass. Eames tries to swallow, but his throat seems to be closing in on itself.

Arthur rests his chin atop Eames’s shoulder, his ear brushing against Eames’s, delicately intimate.

They remain still, basking in the sensations which curl over them, folded all around each other, warm and so close. Then, Eames turns his head, putting his lips against Arthur’s ear.

“Et alors, cheri?” he whispers, gently encouraging. ‘ _And so, darling?’_

Arthur stirs, sluggish, as though awaking and responds in French instinctively. “Oui,” he murmurs, “Oui, d’accord.”

And then Arthur’s thighs flex as he lifts himself back up, his grip heavy either side of Eames’s neck. He lifts up and then drops again and Eames grunts, cannot help himself as Arthur sets their pace, fucking himself onto Eames’s cock, up and down, achingly slow. Arthur is terrible for drawing things out this way. He does it because he knows it drives Eames crazy, rather than because slow is the way that Arthur likes it.

Eames runs his fingertips all over Arthur’s skin and presses his open mouth to Arthur’s throat, licking wet and sticky along his jugular, relishing the sleek stretch of Arthur’s body against him, around him. He whispers sweet nothings because he knows that Arthur hates them. He mouths all manner of reverence, because he knows that Arthur loathes worship.

Arthur tugs at Eames’s head, fingers sliding through the slick beads of fresh sweat, pulling his face up so that he can press their lips together. He slides down Eames’s cock and rests there in his lap again, squeezing and releasing around Eames, tiny, invisible motions, careful and deliberate, before he lifts himself up again, so slow and Eames gasps and tries to chase after him with desperate lips and scrabbling fingers, growling, “Fuck, Arthur, _fuck_.”  

The slow pace does not last for long. Arthur’s fluid movements soon degenerate into shallow, jolting thrusts, making the chair legs creak ominously beneath them. Eames can’t keep still and there is no longer anything sweet about the words pouring from his mouth; he swears in streams long enough to make his old rugby buddies blush. His hips stutter upwards, trying to get deeper, but the angle is all wrong and he can’t get far enough.

“Bed,” he manages to grate out, half instruction, half warning, before he sweeps his hands beneath Arthur’s thighs, and stands up, knees wobbling, taking Arthur with him.

Arthur makes a noise of protest, starts to fight him a little and then clings to keep from falling, but the bed is two steps away and Eames lurches towards it, twisting to make sure that he lands first, with Arthur still on top of him, scrambling for his balance. They bounce a little as they hit the mattress. Arthur shoves two hands against Eames’s chest, pushes at him with a growl, his eyes glittering dangerously.

“I told you not you move,” he says.

“I know. I’m sorry, love. I thought you might make an exception in this case,” Eames says in a rush and flexes his hips upwards, hitting deeper, hitting that spot which makes Arthur’s whole body go tight, which makes him throw back his head with a moan, his neck straining, his muscles clenching around Eames’s dick. And Eames sees stars.

There is no grace left after that. They forget everything except how to get more, more, and more. Arthur’s spine is curved backwards. He has one hand braced behind him for leverage and is gripping bruises around Eames’s thigh. His other hand is digging against Eames’s hip as he thrusts himself up and down. His hair is damp with sweat, his eyes are closed, his head lolling, so beautiful and too much of a mess to even care.

When Eames reaches out and curls his fingers around Arthur’s dick, Arthur’s eyes fly open. He catches the back of Eames’s neck and tugs Eames upwards, so that they are face to face again, so that Arthur can slam their lips together as he comes. There are the final frantic pulses of Arthur’s muscles, a flood of liquid warmth against Eames’s stomach and then Eames is shuddering helplessly, releasing deep inside. Static is buzzing between his ears and his moans get lost down Arthur’s throat.

They crumple together amongst the rumpled sheets. They lie there, flushed and sticky and slicked with sweat.

“That was a good idea,” Arthur murmurs from where he is slumped against Eames’s chest, with Eames still softening inside of him.

“I’m good at ideas,” Eames says.

“Yes. Although less so at the actual execution of them. That always falls to me,” Arthur says and then runs teasing fingertips up Eames’s side, the touch tickling against Eames’s ribs. “Once again, I appear to have pulled it off spectacularly.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” Eames mutters, his eyes still closed.

And then Arthur’s mouth is suddenly against his ear, saying, “No. I’m full of you,” and another rush of arousal spikes unexpectedly in Eames’s stomach.

Eames finally makes use of his weight advantage to roll them both over, looming over Arthur and pinning his wrists to the bed. Arthur stares up at him. He could break the hold if he wanted to, but he is loose-limbed and languid, easy beneath Eames’s hands.

Rain is still lashing against the windows. A rumble of thunder sounds, not too far away, echoing through the hotel walls.

When Eames says, “There’s no way I’m going out in that,” Arthur hums in agreement, and Eames looks down at him.

“What do you want to do?” Eames says.

Arthur twists his wrists in Eames’s grasp. He lifts his torso so that he can nudge his nose against Eames’s.

“Got any more good ideas?” Arthur asks.


End file.
